


In a Cabin, In the Woods

by dweadpiwatemeggers



Series: Creatures of Flame and Purpose [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, Martyrdom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-28 10:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6325201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dweadpiwatemeggers/pseuds/dweadpiwatemeggers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A former Tranquil, now Herald of Andraste, Chance Trevelyan struggles to keep his emotions, and his magic, under control. Recognising the risk he poses to the fledgling Inquisition, he calls a clandestine meeting to discuss contingency measures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dawn, and the world was slowly waking in the pitifully pale sunlight. Though spring had claimed dominion over the southern lands, she had yet to extend her reach to the Frostbacks, where winter still held sway. Daily, though, there were signs of his weakening grip, the birdsong heralding the rising sun, rivulets of melted snow carving tiny canyons on their way to join the lake, snowdrops, deceptively delicate, peaking white heads and green shoulders above the softening snow.

There was a cluster of them growing by the cabin in the trees beyond Haven. They twined with the elfroot that was, no doubt, intentionally planted by the previous owner. In time they would likely carpet the small clearing, preserving the blanket of white for a few extra months, maintaining the image of the mountain that pilgrims would expect. It was into this early morning tableau, this scene that looked to be painted, a masterpiece, rather than an image formed by the realm of reality, that Chance walked, slow and deliberate. He was careful not to crush any of the growing green underfoot, reaching up to greet the trees, feel the cool prickle of snow-covered pine needles on his fingertips, the brittle leafless branches of the birch. He smiled at them each in turn, these sleeping giants with whom he felt a strange kinship, noting the green buds beginning to form. Awakening. Renewal. Yes, he definitely understood.

Still smiling, he stopped, and, careful not to expose more of his clothing to the lingering drifts than necessary, squatted next to one of the snowdrops by the cabin door.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he whispered, gentle fingers tracing up the stem, carefully stroking the downward curving petals. “I’d like to borrow some of your strength, if you don’t mind. Today might be a difficult one.”

The only answer was silence, and he chuckled at his own absurdity, reduced to talking to flowers for reassurance, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the faint scent of honey cut by the crispness of the early morning air.

“Cheers,” he whispered to the blooms, nodded his thanks, and stood, opened the door to the cabin and walked in to wait for the others.

In spite of his lack of official position beyond ‘Agent of the Inquisition,’ a request from the Herald of Andraste appeared to be tantamount to an order. Or, at least, some had been taking it as such, and those he had invited, would, he hoped, respond either out of respect for the mark or simple curiosity. It had been a simple enough message, delivered to three: “Please meet me at Taigen’s cabin to discuss a matter of some import,” along with a date and a time.

Luck had arrived first, arm finally free of its sling, dark hair tied back in an elaborate knot. She was early, as was her wont. What Society took to signify a vulgar eagerness on his sister’s part, he knew from years of casual observation that it was simply another sign of her conscientious nature. By arriving early, before any others, she was given the opportunity to choose from any of the positions within the room, and she did so, close to him, back to the wall, facing the door to observe any others who might arrive.

Chance shifted his own place, around to the side of the lit brazier in the centre of the cabin’s main room, just a little further away, a little more open to attack from whomever might walk through the door, and grinned when she stiffened, tossed her a wink in response to the quiet glare when she realised what he was doing.

Not that he expected that either Commander Cullen or Cassandra, who walked in together, would do any such thing. In spite of their apparent dedication to the Chant, they had both expressed their belief that he had not been the source of the Breach, which, considering that neither of them seemed the type to strike down an innocent, had certainly contributed to his continued existence, not to mention had gone some way to earn his trust.

Then again, he had never been accused of having particularly high standards on that front.

He welcomed them in, and motioned for them to join him around the fire. A tilt of his head signalled to Luck, still lurking near the back wall, to join them. She took a step forward, only a step, thus remaining behind, out of the circle. So there they all stood, armored, Cassandra and Cullen openly wearing their swords, and if one counted the magic at his disposal, and the knives that Luck undoubtedly had hidden somewhere on her person, all were armed. A confused little conspiracy within a conspiracy. Cassandra watched him, arms crossed over her breastplate. The Commander, trying valiantly, and failing miserably to look relaxed, stood with both hands crossed over the pommel of his sword, eyes darting occasionally from the Herald to where Luck stood in the background, apparently staring into the fire, but watching the pair of warriors from beneath her lashes.

“Well,” Chance declared, before the silence deepened from simply awkward into truly uncomfortable. He brought his hands together, rubbing them briskly before clasping them in front of his chest, thumbs tapping together. “I’m sure you’re all dying to know what I’ve asked you to meet with me, all the way out here, at this time of the morning.”

Taking their nods, and Cassandra’s grunt, as confirmation, he continued, “I would have suggested that we meet in the Chantry, but one gets the impression that even the walls’ ears have ears there, if you take my meaning.”

He noted out of the corner of his eye, the abrupt flick of Luck’s head as she turned to look at him, though his own line of sight never left the Commander and Cassandra, exchanging a glance.

“You… did not wish this meeting to be overheard.” The Seeker spoke for them both.

“I did not,” he agreed, dropping his smile, and with it, all pretense of this being anything but the most serious of conversations. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked at them each in turn. “What I say to you now is to be kept in the strictest confidence. If you stay, you agree that nothing that passes between these walls will be shared with any other.”

He paused to allow his words to sink in. “If you feel that you are unable to do so, I will allow a moment for you to leave.”

The moment passed, in silence but for the soft squeak of leather and metal as Cassandra shifted from foot to foot. The air felt thicker, somehow, the fire dimmed as Chance pulled in a shaky breath, and continued, lowering his voice enough that even if someone should happen across the cabin, they would not be able to hear.

“Seeker, so far as you are aware, I am the first mage to have ever been permanently cured of Tranquility, correct?”

“You have already asked me this,” she replied, with some impatience.

“Please, Cassandra.” Chance sighed, “Humor me.”

“No. There have been no others.”

“Thank you.” He did his best to nod graciously, the early training of his childhood long since eroded to dust, now being practiced in the mountains of rural Fereldan. Turning his head to the other woman in the room he asked, “Luck?”

“Chance.” It was only a name, only his name, but through her gritted teeth the tone was clear: suspicious,  a warning, a promise that if he continued down this path it would end badly.

He closed his eyes, felt the slow constriction of throat and heart and lungs. The flames in the centre of the room flared as a log collapsed, sending up a shower of sparks.

“In your research,” he heard her sharp intake of breath, drawn in between teeth. “In your studies of the history of the Rite,” he amended, “Did you find anything to suggest otherwise?”

She shook her head, eyes now fixed firmly on the others, watching. “No.”

“Good! Well, not good. Good that we’re all on the same page, bad that we have no information.” Chance smiled, forced, involuntary, like his body had just decided to function independently of his mind. He was babbling, and he recognized that too, but he could not seem to stop himself, words rushing out of his mouth of their own accord. Like a witness to a disaster he was forced to watch, feeling as though somehow, somewhere, he and his mind had diverged, and he was running without himself. His palms were sweating. It itched. Idly, he dried them on his breeches as the waterfall of words continued to fall.

“No point beating around the bush. I can feel. I can do magic. I’m having some difficulty controlling both, and we have no idea if I may be vulnerable to possession.”

He felt his sister step closer to the brazier. At the same time, he watched Commander Cullen take a step back, just a fraction, hands tightening over his sword. Cassandra alone remained motionless, as he expected her to. Of the gathered group she was the only one who had been witness to his daily struggle first hand, the only one with whom the subject had already been broached, although it had been Varric, and not himself, who had asked.

He swallowed, pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes to ward off the sting of tears which threatened, shook them when he realised that all that he was accomplishing was turning the tears to ice.

“If,” Chance began, voice wavering in spite of his resolution otherwise. “Seeker. Commander. I should very much like your word that if that should come to pass… Will you do what is necessary?”

They turned to look at each other, they who had served the Chantry since their youth, nodded. The Commander turned back to him to speak, “Herald.”

He got no further, cut off by a voice coming from Chance’s right. “Tell me, brother, should you also like to specify the manner of your death?”

She was quiet, her mouth barely moving as she spoke in a voice so tight he was amazed that any sound at all could be produced. This was not his sister, this creature walking out of the shadows, not with the aristocrat’s mask covering the barely contained fury, eyes harder than any stone. This was the Lady Luck advancing on him, as she spread her hands in offering. “If we are going to be determining these details in advance, should we not aim for perfection?”

“Luck…” his own hands were held up, in placation, to ward her off, he didn’t know.

She continued as though she hadn’t heard him, “No doubt, with all the swords available we could arrange for Andraste’s Herald to meet a similar fate to his predecessor. Or would you prefer decapitation? They do say it’s painless, and becoming quite fashionable among the nobles of Orlais.”

Another step, and she was in his space, not enough to be nose-to-nose, not yet, but close enough that he would be forced to stand his ground, or else give way, and let her back him into the wall. “I note that I was not asked to give _my_ word. May I take that to mean you do not wish your death to be delivered by an arrow to the eye? Is death by an archer’s hands not to your martyr’s taste?”

He wanted his staff, safely stowed in his own cabin. He wanted something to hold, something to focus on. Something that wasn’t this attack. Mouth dry, throat tight, he tried to supress, force down the anger, the betrayal. He was shaking. Like a dragon, it rose in spite of him, and he pushed back, sparkling frost dancing over his fingertips as the fired dimmed, the room cooled.

The Commander stepped forward, blocked by Cassandra’s arm across his chest, a decisive shake of her head, but Luck stepped forward too. Closer. Too close. She was right in his face, blocking out everything else, and the ice crept higher, coating the fists that he kept clenched at his sides. He would not, tempted though he was. He would not, even if she stood too close, her anger in almost palpable waves rolling into him. He would _not_ strike, no matter that every fibre of his being cried out to fight back, to ward off this assault that it was facing.

“Then why,” and he could feel the breath on his face, “hand your life back to those who stole it in the first place!” she spat, and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her.

He inhaled, held it, exhaled, and the ice coating his hands cracked, shattered, fell to the ground as he flexed his fingers. _She hadn’t been fair. It wasn’t their fault, not Cassandra, nor Cullen._

He inhaled, deeper, exhaled, faster. _She had no right. It was insulting._

Inhale, shallow, exhale, forced. The dragon rose, the flame in the brazier shifted. _Couldn’t she see? Couldn’t she understand the danger that everyone could be in?_

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Hard, heavy. Hands to his hair, he paced. Behind him, the flames rose, a slowly spiralling column, a pillar stretching for the ceiling as he spun in his own mind. _How could she? How could she? After everything they’d been through. After a shared lifetime, how could she turn on him like this? Who could he trust if not for her?_

“Herald.” Cassandra’s quiet warning, stern, cut across his rumination.

He turned, saw the tower of fire that had been built behind him, and his eyes widened. He started back. “Shit.”

Waving a hand, he intended to bring it down. Instead, the pillar was encased in ice. It lasted a moment, and then it shattered, exploding outward; the three still in the room brought their arms up to protect their faces from the flying shards.

The others lowered their arms slowly, but Chance brought his hands to his face instead, scrubbed at it, before running them through his hair, resting them on the back of his neck. He stared at the floor, rather than meet their eyes, stared at the now-melting remains of the fire, the sodden logs he’d lit earlier, and the heat that had left the room with the fire’s death flared in his cheeks, spread to the rest of his face, his ears, until the entirety of his being felt the prickle of flaming embarrassment, consumed by a wish to be swallowed by the floor and disappear for the rest of eternity.

Again, it was Cassandra who broke through, with a mild remark. “Your precision is improving.”

A shaky laugh burst from his mouth as he looked up to her, then another, harder, once he noticed the horrified expression on the Commander’s face. He laughed until he was bent double, eyes streaming, arms clutching his middle, breath coming in wheezing gasps. Three times, he thought it was finished, began to stand, only to dissolve into a helpless paroxysm again.

A fourth attempt and he got himself under control, barely, and, wiping the tears from his eyes, he looked to where Cassandra was watching him with a quirk to her mouth. He grinned back at her, “Don’t tell me no one’s ever found you that funny before.”

He was rewarded with a distinctly disgusted noise, a quiet cough from Commander Cullen, and a sense that the world was slowly, ever so slowly, righting itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from an old children's song about a young boy (or small man) who saves a rabbit from a hunter by taking the rabbit into his home, a small cabin in the woods. It seemed fitting.


	2. Chapter 2

The cabin which had been assigned to Chance, over his objections – a tent would be fine, surely there must be others, families, the sick, that needed it more than he did – had its benefits. It was warm, with the strong wooden walls blocking the bulk of the mountain winds. It was quiet; on the edge of the village there was precious little through traffic. And it was private, which was fortunate, because his prediction for the day had been far too accurate. First, there had been the discussion in Taigen's cabin. Then training – he still couldn't cast half the spells he'd learned as an apprentice worth a damn, when it used to be so easy, instinctive. Finally, Lady Ambassador Montilyet had made the lovely announcement that the Inquisition would be sending _him_ to Val Royeaux to speak to the assembled Mothers. It was too much, far too much, for one day.

Lying on the bed for which someone, somehow, had managed to procure coverings from the Free Marches – he suspected the selfsame Lady Ambassador, or perhaps Luck – he folded his hands behind his head, tilted his head, and watched the door.

It didn't move.

Not that he expected it to; he received few visitors. Truth be told, he hadn't spent that much time in Haven, and really only used the cabin to sleep, bathe and dress, so it wasn't entirely surprising. There would be the odd messenger, Varric, Luck.

If she hadn't come to confront him by now, then she was bound to be off sulking somewhere.

He groaned softly, rolled over to sit up, bare feet cold on the world floor.

"If Andraste will not go to Minrathous…" he murmured, getting down on the floor to dig under the bed for his socks. He sat, tried to tug them on over icy toes, only to realise, as his fingers slipped over the slick coating, that his feet were literally frozen. A strangled half-scream left him, the balled up sock flung across the room. It caught on the wall, stuck a moment before falling gently to the floor. His head followed, to fall into his hands, elbows braced on his knees.

_Breathe_ , the ghost of Cassandra's voice, stern, echoed through his head, _you must focus_. In through the nose, hold, out through the mouth, repeat, until he had the strength to lift his head, glare at his toes.

"Stop that," he pointed firmly at the offending foot, dispelling the collected ice. "We are not nervous. We are not going to apologise, because we are not wrong."

He got to his feet, walked across the room to retrieve the sock, and sat down heavily on his bed. In the process of pulling the second sock up past the middle of his foot, it struck him, his groan morphing into a tired chuckle as he muttered, "I'm not sure if this is better or worse than talking to flowers."

Socks and boots eventually sorted, he stood, and lifted an apple from the basket on his desk as he passed. He tossed it between his hands as he left the peace of his little cabin for the wider world outdoors.

Small though it was, Haven was loud, bustling. Like a hive, it was filled with the toing-and-froing of spies, tinkers, merchants, refugees, farmers, soldiers and diplomats: the army of the faithful, such as it was, formed primarily from rabble. He nodded to the ones that bowed, waved to the ones whose names he actually remembered. It was a smaller number than it should have been, another thing he was having difficulty with these days. His back itched from the dozens of pairs of eyes upon it, as he passed in a loop from his cabin, to Leliana up by the Chantry, through to Solas near the apothecary, down to Varric, smack in the centre of everything. By the time he'd completed his loop, all that remained of his apple was the core, casually tossed to the side after he pocketed the seeds.

"Two-step," Varric greeted him. "Need something?"

Chance gave a half-shrug, thumbs hooked onto the belt of his standard-issue Inquisition robes. "Have you seen my sister, by any chance?"

Varric looked at him, lips pressed together like he had something precious locked under his tongue.

Chance raised an eyebrow in return, "Something I should know, Varric?"

A rumbling huff left the dwarf as the smirk he'd been suppressing finally broke free, and it dawned on Chance what it was that he had said. "By any _chance_. Yes, yes. Very clever. I have certainly never heard that one before."

He rolled his eyes as Varric continued to chuckle. "So…?"

"Last I heard, she had the Horsemaster cornered. Or maybe it was the other way around." Varric waved a hand vaguely back and forth. "Cards later?"

He shouted down the stairs, because Chance was already halfway down, on the way to what passed for Haven's stables: a fence on two sides of a corner of grass between the smithy and the village wall.

"Always," the mage shouted back over his shoulder, taking the steps two at a time.

Varric had been right, of course, which had been the entire point of asking him. Interfering busybodies, even those with the best intentions, typically knew what everyone else was getting into. There she was, back to the gates, in the midst of an intense discussion with Horsemaster Dennet, gesturing emphatically at the stable as she spoke.

Dennet looked up as Chance approached. "Herald," the Horsemaster greeted him with a smile, "You never mentioned the family business in your recruiting effort."

He watched Luck's back stiffen before she turned, looked over her shoulder to confirm it was him, and he came up to stand beside his sister. She had managed to compose herself into something resembling casual, a lingering tightness in the surcoat covering her shoulders revealed the truth.

"I was never exactly a part of that side of things," Chance explained with a sheepish smile, "a flaw I shall endeavour to overcome."

"One of your many," Luck muttered, under her breath.

"Pardon, my lady?" Dennet asked.

Oh, but the Horsemaster was quick, to have caught that. Chance grinned. He knew he shouldn't laugh, shouldn't feel so smug, not when he needed her on his side, but damn it was satisfying. What was that Planasene word, the one for taking joy in the misery of others?

"Just that the Herald couldn't possibly have any," she corrected, loud enough for everyone to hear, hand reaching up to grasp Chance by the shoulder, fingers digging so deeply into the cloth of his robes that it hurt, her smile that of a wildcat about to pounce.

But he was prepared, this time. He knew the anger would be there, that it was her struggling to come to terms with everything he had said, not because he had done anything wrong. This time, he had a plan to deal with it.

He smiled back down at her, "Not if you're going to help train me."

Turning to Dennet, he continued, "We could borrow two of your charges, couldn't we? I haven't ridden much since I was a child. I desperately need the practice."

With the man's consent, two of the stablehands all but tripped over themselves to saddle a pair of Forders, Chance and Luck's own Trevelyan greys having been lost at the Conclave. Chance bounced on the balls of his feet as he waited, feeling Luck silently fuming beside him. She was caught, unable to make an excuse to leave the Herald in his time of need, and they both knew it.

"Sorry, m'lady," the stablehand leading Luck's mount bowed clumsily to her as he handed over the reins. "They ain't finished makin' the saddle y'asked for yet."

"Not to worry." She reassured him, swinging herself up into the provided saddle flawlessly, then turning to pointedly watch Chance struggle to find purchase, eventually succeeding. "I will manage."

For his own part, once finally mounted, Chance nodded graciously to the Horsemaster and the two others, one of whom appeared to have become suddenly, violently ill, one hand clamped to his mouth, the other to his stomach, face rapidly turning red. "You have my permission to laugh, gentlemen."

With that, the stablehand who had been holding back let loose a tremendous bark of laughter, "Best get goin' then, y'Worship. Looks like y'need all the practice y'can get."

Chance laughed along with the rest, noting that even Luck softened for a moment before she set her horse walking down the path.

Haven was not an ideal place to learn to ride; there were few open spaces, and fewer paths. One might go up to the ruined temple, down the mountain, or around the lake. Still, it would serve for the duration.

They made their way past the gates, he on the right, she on the left, past the training grounds, and into the forest. It was much as he remembered, this business of riding. He needed practice, true, but he was not a complete novice, it was simply a question of remembering, rebuilding the skills, rather than re-learning them.

"So," he said, when he felt that they'd traveled far enough to be out of earshot, "is this where you scream in my face and then leave me alone in a darkening forest, all by my lonesome?"

She sighed, eyes closing, "I think we're a little old for shouting matches, Chance."

"But not too old for the silent treatment?" he retorted. He watched her bristle, back straight, chest swelling, like a cat puffing itself up for a fight. He smiled. For all his intentions to make peace, for what had happened earlier, his impulses were mastering him. She was so utterly predictable, so easy to provoke, to prod into reacting.

Luck looked over, caught him grinning at her. She deflated, only a little, back still poker-straight as she kept a perfect seat, but her eyes lost their hard look, the corner of her lips twitching.

"You're teasing me," she said, not quite a question, not quite a statement, a lift to the end betraying her uncertainty, unwillingness to hope after so many hopeless years.

"I might be," he shrugged.

She laughed. It had never been musical, ladylike, her laugh. It took many forms: the deep-throated chuckle that so resembled their father's, the childish giggle of a nine-year-old tearing around after her brothers, the gleeful cackle of a villainess whose plans were coming to fruition. It was hearthfires and libraries and warmth and home. It was all of these things and more and more and more, filling him up and up until he was crying, laughing, crying along with her, and past her. He sighed, chuckled ruefully, and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the wetness from his cheeks while she looked on.

"Has it been hard for you, _mi carissimo_?" she asked softly.

He sighed. He shrugged. He released the reins to spread his hands wide, as if to ask 'where to begin?'

She nodded her understanding, and reached across to lay her right hand over top of his left, squeezed it reassuringly.

They rode in silence between the trees, snow beginning to fall, the large, fluffy clusters of much smaller flakes bound together, in spite of the sun that still shone, it muffled the sounds of their horses' hooves. He opened his mouth to speak, frowned, closed it again. He shook his head, ran his hand through his hair. The words were there, on the tip of his tongue, but none came out. A long string of emotions, colours, a chain of need-want-feel, but no way to explain what it all meant, twisting and tangled and torturous, this process of self-expression. It used to be easier. It had been so easy to know his own mind once, before…

He could see her watching, out of the corner of his eye, waiting for him to gather his scrambled thoughts. She was patient, so patient, now. So different from when they'd been children. So different from before…

There it was. The answer, finally. How to begin. He held up his right hand, palm to the sky, fingers flicked outwards. There was a burst of frost in the palm, something to focus on as he spoke, "I'm not him anymore, Luck," he watched as the snow began to fall towards his hand, a swirl, an eddy, spinning, sparkling in the sun. "I'm not the brother you tried to save. I'm still myself. There's no one else in my head. But the Rite, what happened…"

"Changed us both," she finished for him. "I know. Between the trauma and the time that's passed, how could it not?"

He sighed, nodding, and she continued, voice thick "You are wrong, though. All those years of research, of dead ends, I wasn't trying to save the brother I remembered. I was trying to save the man he could become."

She sniffled, and he looked over to catch her watery smile. "And here you are. Without my help."

"Luck," he chided, softly. He was snow without and ice within, beat, beat, _crack_ , his shattered heart spreading shards through his chest.

"It's all right," she blinked her tears away, "It's something I'm working towards being at peace with."

He stopped his horse, waited for her to do the same. With some difficulty, he reached across the space between them to grasp her shoulder, black eyes boring into brown. "I will _always_ want your help, Lucky-girl. _Always_."

She pressed her lips together, smile tight as her eyes welled once more, returning the gesture, their arms folded over each other. "Then you'll always have it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus but this chapter kicked my ass. I never intended for this one to exist, but I felt like things needed to be resolved between Chance and Luck before I moved forwards. So, it happened.
> 
> "If Andraste will not go to Minrathous, Minrathous must go to Andraste." Is a re-interpretation of the proverb "If the hill will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet will go to the hill." My mother, for reasons I cannot fathom, always said it backwards, and so did I.
> 
> Yes, Chance being made Tranquil then having to re-learn everything is my explanation for why all the spells changed from what the Warden can do to what he can do.
> 
> Yes, Varric calls Chance 'Two-step'. One of the first spells he mastered after he woke back up with the magic was Fade Step – two steps then he's gone. Hence the name.
> 
> Not sure if I made it totally clear, but at this point Chance is wearing the Inquisition Battlemage Robes, and Luck is wearing the Free Army Scout Armor, because it confuses me the least.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from an old children's song about a young boy (or small man) who saves a rabbit from a hunter by taking the rabbit into his home, a small cabin in the woods. It seemed fitting.


End file.
